


Lambert's (Not-So) Mysterious Vial of Oil

by rawrkinjd



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Lambert (The Witcher), Competent Lambert, Consent, Dubious Science, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M, Top Aiden (The Witcher), Vesemir Does His Best, Witcher Sex Education, poor Aiden, well first decent sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29360709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: Lambert discovers that Aiden has been using spit - fucking spit - along with a laundry list of other disgusting alternatives for sex (tallow, yeah, that was on offer too). He whips up his own lube using a centuries-old recipe and they go to town.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Lambert & Vesemir (The Witcher)
Comments: 86
Kudos: 260





	1. Slick Not Spit

Despite his deeply ingrained pessimism, Lambert had always hoped that his first time with Aiden would be heralded by a choir of fucking _angels_. There’d be heavenly light, and soft blankets, and wet kisses, and just… yeah, _good shit._ Unfortunately, it didn’t quite pan out that way. Lambert laid that at Guxart’s door and a serious lack of sex education at the Dyn Marv caravan. 

To be fair to the bloke, he was trying to herd Cats _(hurr-hurr)_ with nothing more than the fragile lure of clan loyalty, and the promise of somewhere they could sleep and eat without the fear of arrest or murder. The latter was sometimes difficult to promise given the Cats’ penchant for violence and disorder.

As a result of this grievous oversight, Lambert’s first passionate experience with Aiden was swiftly curtailed. They’d made it across the room—belts, clothes, buckles, knives left haphazardly in their wake—and Aiden’s mouth attached itself to the side of Lambert’s neck. 

_Now was the moment—now, after all the build-up—all that time eyeing Aiden’s cock when they bathed—those clever hands that twirled a sword like a baton—his lips, thick, and full, and cheeky—fuck, fuck, yes!_

He must have been hollering it at the ceiling because Aiden chuckled against his chest through affectionate nuzzles, elbows bracketing Lambert’s sides as he worked his way down. The path of his kisses reached their inevitable destination, and Lambert arched into the wet heat that enveloped his aching prick with an enthusiastic slurp. He petted tousled brown hair, thighs flopping open in a wanton spread as Aiden nosed lower, lapping, sucking, kissing, and—

“Ah, easy,” Lambert winced as wetted fingers probed gently at his ass. “Need some slick for that.”

Aiden looked up; brows knitted in confusion. “Slick?” With his lower lip between his teeth, his eyes widened a fraction. “You can _do_ that?”

“What?” The first alarm bell rang through Lambert’s skull like a funeral chime. Apt, since this was the death knell for his libido that evening. “You know, grease, oil, to ease the way.” Lambert pushed up to his elbows and looked down the slope of his chest. “You got any? Figured you did since you suggested tonight.”

“Uh. Oh, you mean… like? For inside? You want something more than spit.” Aiden completely missed Lambert’s appalled stare, glancing instead towards his bags. He licked his lips as he tried to rally his cock drunk brain to take stock of his current inventory. “I’ve got some insectoid oil left over, and then there was some tallow I harvested from—.”

The bile rose in the back of Lambert’s throat, and his cock softened in empathy with his backside. He managed to wrestle his stomach under control before he stopped Aiden’s list of increasingly more horrific substitutes for a proper slick with a palm over his mouth. _Fucking tallow._ “Woah, alright, no.” Lambert grabbed Aiden by the back of his head, urging him up until their chests were level. “Look. I’m not letting you go to town on me with spit or fuckin’ insectoid oil. I’ll sort somethin’ for tomorrow.”

Aiden looked both disappointed and confused. There was a lot to discuss here, but Lambert had neither the patience nor the eloquence to do it that night. Instead, he nudged Aiden over onto his back and curled against his side. They exchanged lazy kisses, Aiden nibbling at Lambert’s lower lip before lapping gently over the scars on the right side of his face, and they both relaxed into an easy stupor. Their arousal ebbed away, and they fell asleep in a haphazard tangle of limbs.

It didn’t take long for Lambert to source what he needed the following day. He visited an apothecary and paid them a few orens to use their equipment because lubricant was the kind of thing you couldn’t make with a small burner and a few chipped flasks. The apothecary’s assistant hovered nearby, squinting at him in distrust until he barked for some ingredients and threw more coins on the work surface. They had a stock of red seaweed, and Lambert boiled it down to its slippery, gelatinous state—carrageenan—before setting to work on refining himself a lubricant that met his exacting standards. 

Geralt had told him once that the bard shoved chamomile up his backside sometimes, which hurt Lambert on a fucking _spiritual_ level. “Too thin for extended use. How long until it starts to burn, Geralt? Or does Jaskier have the endowment of a sewing needle?” Now he was thinking about sewing needles in that general area, and everything pinched together in distaste. _Fuck you, Snowball._

The only essential oil he ever added was a few clove oil drops because it assisted with the relaxing part. Within a few hours, Lambert had made several large bottles full and sealed each with a cork before leaving. He felt rather smug as he strolled down the promenade towards their chosen inn, the glass jangling noisily inside his bag.

Aiden was busy tidying up a contract, so Lambert treated himself to a bath and a drink. He leaned back in the scorching water and closed his eyes, his elbows resting on the edges of the tub. He spread his thighs as far as they’d go in the confined space and yearned. He could imagine what it would feel like to have Aiden between them again, hips rolling with the same elegance they did in combat, his chest and brow sheened in sweat, and—

His hand dropped beneath the surface and stroked gently down the shaft of his stiffened prick, teasing himself harder with lazy tugs. His fingers wandered a little lower, palm cupping his balls as he caressed down his taint, skin soft and supple in the heat of the water. With his eyes closed, it could be Aiden touching him again, worshipping kisses, words whispered into his skin between soft groans of pleasure. The noise was his now, though—a deep, longing whine of frustration as he circled his hole with the pad of his finger. 

If Lambert were to take an inventory of his personal strengths it would be a fairly extensive list; a veritable _manuscript_ of positive traits. In fact, he’d offered to write them down for the bard so that his songs could hold some truth, but anyway, he digressed—patience would not be on that list. He was a _here-and-now_ type of man, which meant he was currently _here_ and hornier than a leshen in spring, so _now_ he was going to pre-prep himself for the inevitable arrival of his… partner. 

He towelled off quickly, snatched one of the bottles from his bag and sprawled himself out on the pallaise. They’d decided to lay their cloaks over the top because there were some suspect stains, so when Lambert finally rested his head down, he was swamped by Aiden’s scent. He grinned _drunkenly_ at the ceiling as it washed away the harsh smell of lye and fuller’s earth from his bath (because, while Lambert was more than willing to splash out on a good fuck, he would not pay the exorbitant prices for the hard soaps offered by merchants at the market). 

Once he’d doused a hand with a liberal amount, he placed the bottle to one side and spread his legs as far as they’d go. After years of self-service, Lambert knew he could bring himself off in a handful of minutes, but that wasn’t the point. He tugged, and pressed, and teased, until his skin flushed red and his vision was hazy, his mouth lolling open permanently as he keened and moaned. 

The heat of his own body opened effortlessly for the press of his fingers, and he nibbled on his lower lip as he conjured Aiden’s face in his mind’s eye. Wrecked with pleasure, lips were swollen from kisses, brown hair tousled, stuck to his forehead with sweat, forest green eyes blown so wide that Lambert could drown in them.

It was easy to get lost in a fantasy he’d built so flawlessly over the years of knowing Aiden, buried three fingers deep with his legs bent high over his chest, but he was still listening. Ears perked for the tell-tale drum of Aiden’s gait down the hallway. When it finally arrived, Lambert made the snap decision to continue. He pressed his fingers in as deep as he could reach as the second key rattled into the lock, and smirked at the sharp suck of breath as Aiden stepped into the room. 

“Bert,” Aiden whispered, quickly closing the door behind him. Lambert didn’t bother to lift his head at the scurry of movement around the room—boots thumped, clothes rustled, belts clattered. The bed dipped as Aiden climbed on at his side, and then those eyes, wide and glittering, appeared above. “You look…” The words escaped him, which was quite something considering how easily they usually fell from that pretty mouth.

“Like?”

“Yeah,” Aiden vanished, and this time Lambert tilted his head to follow his progress. He wiggled down the bed and knelt between Lambert’s legs, fingers tickling over raised ankles and tense calves. “Does this -? I mean, I’ve never had a man, uh - I didn’t know men self-lubricate when they’ve found the one.”

Lambert couldn’t quite contain the incredulous guffaw before it broke from his chest, and Aiden looked… well, offended. It was both the most adorable and stupidest fuckin' thing Lambert had ever heard in his entire six decades. “Aiden,” he breathed, teeth flashed in a broad smile as he withdrew his fingers, “they don’t. You—you’re telling me Guxart never had The Talk.” 

Because Vesemir had and Lambert repressed it as one of the most traumatising moments of his life. It’d been so fucking open and honest, and none of it felt right coming from the old man. He’d double-checked with Eskel on a few things, who had far too much anecdotal experience.

“Not really,” Aiden rubbed the back of his head. “I wasn’t… you know, I’m not… they left me out of a lot of things.”

“Alright, alright,” Lambert dropped onto his elbows, legs falling to wrap around Aiden’s waist and urge him closer. “The shittiness of your school aside, what about the other part? The one?”

Aiden flushed red to the very tips of his ears. “It’s just, I thought… I mean, you’re the only person who, I’m…”

“Enchanter curse you with the jitters?”

“Ahh, fuck you, I just walked in, and you were all spread open. How am I meant to recover from that?”

“Fair,” Lambert lounged onto his back again, taking Aiden by the biceps, “wanna’ continue where we left off?” His lover was hard. Lambert could feel the heat of his prick against the soft skin of his cleft, and he wanted nothing more than to have it throbbing inside him.

“So, I can just -? You don’t want me to spit?”

“If you spit on me, I will knock you clean out. Just fuck me, idiot.” 

“Okay, alright,” Aiden smirked, more confident now they were back on more familiar parlance. He reached down between them and gripped his prick, carefully guiding the head to Lambert’s hole. He gasped as he sank inside, arms shaking in an effort to hold himself steady. “Fuck, you’re so—loose. Oh my—.”

Lambert pulled a face somewhere between consternation and bliss. It probably qualified as a scowl. “You callin’ me a slut?”

“N—no, I mean it… ahh,” Aiden’s back arched as Lambert’s body rippled playfully around him, and he didn’t talk until their balls rested together and Lambert clenched around the root of his shaft. “It doesn’t… hurt. It doesn’t feel rough, and… oh, fuck, Bert. Feels so good.” 

“Slick,” Lambert breathed in mock awe, lifting his hands to flutter his fingers in a grand, sweeping gesture. Well, as grand as he could be with Aiden buried in his ass. “Welcome, grasshopper, to the world of half-decent sex.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Aiden growled, but Lambert caught the flash of a broad grin before his face vanished. The kisses were just as deep and hungry as he’d imagined, branding Lambert’s skin with passionate devotion as those hips began to move. All Lambert could do was grip onto broad shoulders ashine with sweat, and bind his ankles tightly at the small of Aiden’s back, body weak with desperate bliss. 

Lambert wanted him closer, deeper; every time Aiden pulled out Lambert arched from the bed, rumbling pleas for more. The drag of Aiden’s prick, the perfect precision of his angle and rhythm, made Lambert’s entire body light up with pleasure. His eyes misted, he writhed, and bucked, and clawed, trying to stay anchored so that he could contribute in some way, but it was hopeless. Aiden dragged him under, and Lambert was lost on a tide of his making. It was as Aiden moved above him—inside him—their bodies in perfect rhythm with each other, that Lambert fully understood what people meant when they distinguished between _fucking_ and... whatever the hell this was meant to be. He'd fucked a lot. It helped with the monotonous boredom and general bullshitery of being a witcher. But this? He'd never had _this._ Never felt like he was becoming one with someone else, that their hearts were in step, that he could get lost in their pleasure as well as his own.

He couldn't keep his mouth off Aiden's skin; he panted into kisses and sucked marks on his throat and shoulders, desperate to taste him. Every groan and growl that rumbled free from Aiden's chest sent licks of pleasure up Lambert's spine that complemented the pulse of his building orgasm. Aiden fisted Lambert's hair, forcing his head back, and laced his jaw and neck with biting kisses. When Aiden reached the soft line of skin at the very edge of Lambert's coarse beard, he stopped. His hips slowed to a deeper grind as he mouthed at Lambert's neck, tongue laving over the hammering pulse beneath soft skin, before he whispered a soft, adoring, "Bert."

Lambert came hard, cock flicking beneath the sensuous grind of Aiden’s stomach and coating their downy hair with pearls of milky white. He keened as Aiden continued chasing his peak, body shaking with oversensitivity, nails biting into hard muscle in search of purchase. Excited by Lambert's desperation, Aiden growled and pushed up on his hands, moving faster, making full use of the slick, loose hole still clenching at him. Lambert could only sprawl helplessly, wrecked and sweaty; his wanton display was enough for Aiden; his hips stuttered, uncoordinated and erratic until he pressed deeply with a low groan. Lambert felt his cock pulse, bucked up into it with a filthy snarl; _fuck_ , to be full of Aiden after all this time. It was better than he'd ever fantasised. He could feel it, wet and sticky, as Aiden pulled back, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

They flopped onto the bed, sweaty and spent; Lambert nipped at Aiden’s jaw, receiving lazy tickles and pinches in response. The room hummed with their contentment as they basked in the echoes of their high, fingers intertwined on the damp fabric of their cloaks. The cot was narrow, with barely enough room for one broad witcher, let alone two, so they folded together, ignoring the stickiness, favouring intimacy.

The temperature cooled. Lambert’s skin prickled with drying sweat and other less pleasant leftovers, the heady euphoria of having someone’s spend fill you up lost in the cold reality of gross crustiness. He dragged himself from the mattress long enough to rinse off in the cold water, too lazy to conjure an igni to take the edge off the chill. 

The reliable witcher refractory period—the only positive bit of the mutagens in their bloodstream—came up trumps, and when Lambert turned back, Aiden was propped up on an elbow with a hand wrapped around his hard cock. His thumb teased through the precum already leaking from his slit, those big eyes were expectant and ravenous again, and Lambert flicked his chin at the bottle of oil on the nightstand. “Alright, but you’re doing your own prep this time. Nothin’ worse than a lazy top.”

“Pillow princess,” Aiden chirped, flopping over onto his front; Lambert was sure to slap his backside before he fell back onto the bed. “How much do I need?”

“As much as you want,” Lambert murmured, starfishing his limbs out. If he was going to be the victim of such _slander_ , then he might as well make the most of it, “I made four bottles.” 

“Huh, greedy and presumptuous.”

“Yes.” 

Aiden grinned, bounced up onto his knees, and then proceeded to pour the entire fucking bottle over them. He dribbled it over Lambert’s crotch, his balls, his thighs, and then doused his own body in the rest. His honey coloured skin glistened in the silvery light of the moon slanting through the thin window panes, and Lambert’s lower lip rolled between his teeth once more. “Not bad,” he breathed, hard cock twitching against his stomach.

 _“Right?”_ Aiden flexed; arms bulging, chest twitching, and Lambert whistled in appreciation. “Gonna’ give it to you so good, baby wolf.” 

“Uh-huh,” Lambert flopped his legs open, “c’mon then.”

At this point, Aiden discovered the concept of ‘too much of a good thing’. As he pounced on Lambert, intent on wrapping him up in a passionate kiss and grinding their bodies together in search of glorious friction, he lost traction. 

Lambert tried to grab him, arms wrapping his chest, but his body was so slick he slipped right through. Like an eel squirming through the fingers of an inexperienced fisherman. All of Aiden’s witcher training came to precisely nought as he fell from the narrow bed, limbs flailing, eyes wide. His ass hit the floor and he yelped—half in shock, half in pain. His backside was a damn sight less bruised than his pride.

Lambert wheezed with laughter, eyes watering, chest breathless. He rolled onto his front and propped his chin on the heel of his hand. “I thought cats landed on their feet.” 

“I’ve already used up all nine of my lives,” Aiden threw back and then started to chuckle as he climbed to his feet. “Alright, so, uh… that happened.” 

“Yeah. Gonna’ call you Aiden the Eel,” Lambert grinned, grabbed Aiden’s wrist and pulled him back onto the bed. It was precarious at first, greased limbs slipping erratically as they readjusted, and Lambert decided to perch on top as the least well-lubricated. “Ever frotted with lube?”

“Pre’ count?”

“Ha, no.” Lambert straddled Aiden’s hips and braced his hands either side of his shoulders. “Prepare to be educated.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

It was hot—Aiden was beautiful, his eyes glittering with bewildered pleasure—but it was also too funny to keep up any pace because Lambert’s oil didn’t lose its _slipperiness_ after just a few thrusts. They were no longer chasing a peak but languished in breathless delight and a contented ache. Lambert slipped several times and knocked his head on the wall twice, but as long as Aiden was smiling, laughing, he’d deal with all the squelches, accidental knees in the bollocks and bumps on the head without complaint. 

They fumbled, and kissed, and writhed until their muscles were sore and their eyes heavy. By the end, Lambert could barely convince Aiden to leave the bed to clean off and replace the sopping cloaks with their bedrolls. 

“Four bottles, you say,” Aiden murmured sleepily, curling close to Lambert’s chest once they were settled.

“Yeah. Four bottles.”

“Might just about cover it.”

Lambert was pretty sure Aiden meant sex. He _hoped_ he meant sex. He wouldn’t put it past Aiden to organise a slip-and-slide competition down the streets of Beauclair. Before he could ask, a soft snore rose from the slumbering Cat at his side. 


	2. Epilogue: The Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vesemir has The Talk with Lambert. As requested by a few readers!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, the poor old boy does his best. This is an epilogue, but it occurred before Chapter 1 (obviously). I'd imagine Lambert to be about thirteen in this, with the majority of the mutations occurring between ten and twelve. This would be the first conversation of many that would happen over the years, with lessons reinforced and repeated. I've also been asked to write a chapter where Lambert tries the oil on Aiden? So, I'm working on that, too. I'll probably stick it in as Chapter 2, and move it so that it sits before this one in the sequence. But this part of the story just came to me today, so I thought I'd throw it out.
> 
> My good friend [Octinary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Octinary/pseuds/Octinary) had some thoughts on how the process could develop in the future: 
> 
> "A silly idea: instead of drawing straws, whoever gets caught fucking in the baths first that winter has to give the Talk as punishment. Geralt and Eskel have condensed it down to a smooth, but informative 20 minutes."
> 
> "[At one point], there is a brief very concerned talk with Vesemir.  
> V: Do you enjoy talking about sex with teenagers?  
> E+G: No... we just have poor impulse control around each other...  
> One year they just burst into the class and start giving the Talk. They weren't even caught that year, just force of habit."
> 
> "Trying to get through it as fast as possible while still doing a good job. Talking a mile a minute. They always start by rushing it, but as soon as someone asks a question it's just sigh Okay. Lost my boner anyway. Let's do this properly."
> 
> * * *

Vesemir had drawn the short straw. The other instructors had laughed at his back, waggling their fingers in a mock wave, as he trudged off to do his duty. Every year they took a small handful of young lads aside and gave them The Talk. It was always awkward, and Vesemir hadn't perfected the knack for it. For Geralt and Eskel he'd drawn diagrams and brought a prop along. Eskel ended up laughing so hard he pulled a muscle, and Geralt was just flushed red for the entire time. Not even that absolute carriage crash of an ordeal would match up to this though, because _Lambert_ was in a whole different league.

The old fencing instructor knocked politely on the door leading into the dormitory. He knew there would be a few boys sitting on their bunks playing cards, while some would be off completing their scheduled chores and another handful would be out with Varin running obstacles on the trail. The instructors knocked because it was an essential part of modelling respect for the older students. When they were pups, old Hastor would elbow his way into their rooms without a thought, yanking wooden swords from their hands at gone midnight and corralling them into bed with a gruff bark, but now they were almost young men, it was only right to allow them to set clear boundaries.

"What?" called a bored voice from behind the door. 

"Lambert, ploughin' hell, it's Vesemir, show some respect," said Voltehre, his voice somewhat shrill. "Sorry, sir. Come in."

Vesemir elbowed the door open and wrinkled his nose as a wave of musty funk - the type that only originated from teenage boys - washed over him. "When was the last time you changed those bedsheets?" he growled. 

Lambert looked up from the knucklebones he'd been throwing about on the floor and sniffed thoughtfully. "Week," he glanced at Voltehre who poked up towards the ceiling, grimacing, "two-three? Three weeks."

"Kreve's bollocks," Vesemir grumbled. "Voltehre, Barmin's looking for you." He glanced around the rest of the room. No other gangly teens were hiding between the wardrobes or under the bed. Young Voltehre, ever the teacher's pet, leapt to his feet and scuttled out the door at Vesemir's back. "Lambert, come and sit."

"Look. Whatever it is, I didn't do it." Lambert uncurled from the floor, all sinewy and oddly proportioned. Young lads were always so awkward, even after the Grasses. Everything was too big for them; their bodies, the world.

"I certainly hope not," Vesemir grumped, and found himself a relatively intact armchair to fall into. The damned runts hadn't managed to Aard this one across the room by accident (read: entirely on purpose) yet. Lambert sidled over, his eyes flitting down to the belt still firmly wrapped around Vesemir's waist and his instructor's eyes; he hovered by the edge of the bed, dancing from foot to foot until Vesemir lost patience and pointed firmly. "Sit. Now. I haven't got all day, boy." 

With a soft growl, Lambert sat down. He tucked his hands beneath his thighs, shoulders hunched and watched Vesemir with those intense yellow eyes, still bright and fresh. They'd darken towards honey-amber as he aged. Some of them turned a little green, or perhaps a little golden, but Lambert was going to be honey-eyed. Like Eskel. Vesemir sighed. "You're of age now," he started, and tried to ignore the way Lambert's eyebrows hopped up, "which means certain things are happening to your body that might be confusin' or worryin'." 

Lambert's expression went through a loop of confused, surprised and then - worryingly - amused. He threw up his hands. "Wait, wait," he blustered, rolling off the bed to his small trunk of belongings. Every young boy had a single case at the foot of his bed. Most of them collected trinkets from each other and the witchers from the Path - whittled models, maps, compasses - but Lambert was known to squirrel away food. They couldn't stop him, it made him feel more secure, and he was always meticulously tidy, so they no longer bothered reprimanding him. The lad returned with a bag full of dry biscuits, plopped himself on the side of the bed with folded legs, and began slowly grazing. "Please continue," he said, with an infuriatingly mischievous grin. 

"You know what this is about." 

"Oh yeah." 

"Geralt and Eskel tell you?" 

"Mhm," Lambert nodded, shoving a palmful of biscuits into his face. "They said oo'd come an' gif me the talk, said it was awkward a'fuck." 

"Don't talk with your mouth full, boy. You're not an animal."

Lambert's brow set, but he finished what he was eating before he spoke again. "Well, c'mon then." 

Vesemir, taken aback by this sudden turn of events, cleared his throat. "So, uh," he paused, foraging for his opening line and any shred of authority he could muster in this situation. "Your body's going through some changes. Slightly delayed by the Grasses, but it's happening. You'll get hair in new places." 

"Where?" Lambert's eyes _shone_ with delight. "I want diagrams." 

"You're not gettin' effin' diagrams," growled Vesemir, making a mental note to slap both Eskel and Geralt upside their idiot heads. "Between your legs, under your arms, belly and chest, too." 

"Am I going to get a hairy crack like Rennes?" Lambert grinned, all teeth. "Back, too?"

Vesemir rubbed his fingers into his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, took a _very_ deep breath, and continued. "If you do, there's nothin' wrong with that. Hair equals health, on women, on men," he leaned back and tapped the arms of the chair. "Now, you're going to be feelin' certain urges. Wantin' to, uh," he motioned vaguely at his crotch. 

"I'm not feelin' any urges for that, old man, every offence intended." Lambert's noses wrinkled.

"That's not -," Vesemir started, paused again, and realised he needed to take this bull(shit) by the horns, or he was going to walk out of here having been made a fool of by the cheekiest little shit in Kaer Morhen. "I mean you. You're gonna' want t' touch yourself, and that's fine. There's nothin' wrong with... that." 

"Explain touch myself. I'm not sure I entirely understand." Lambert nibbled on the edge of a biscuit.

"Your prick," Vesemir said, bluntly. "Perhaps other places, too. Ass, chest. Key is, you do it in private, doing it in public is indecent."

"Voltehre popped a boner during arithmetic. Should I have decked him for being indecent?"

"No, he couldn't help that."

"What if I can't help but touch my dick?"

"Then we'll need to have a think about a long talk with the mages."

Lambert tensed at that and Vesemir clenched his teeth. He'd allowed himself to be baited into being an asshole. That wasn't the point of the exercise. He sighed, and they both stared at the bag of biscuits in Lambert's lap. When the lad began to rummage around inside it again, Vesemir knew it was safe to continue.

"It's all about respect," Vesemir said, carefully. "Respect for what people want t' see, what t' touch, and if they want t' be touched, too. A body's a precious thing. Needs to be treated like it." 

"Not precious enough that you couldn't rip it apart during the Grasses, though," Lambert shot back, still smarting from the threat. 

"It's different." Vesemir could see the quiver in the boy's shoulders; the invisible wound left behind by such recent pain still open and sore. He wasn't equipped for that conversation. It was something every witcher came to accept. It was a necessary evil for a greater good. That's why the Choice existed, that's why - 

"Is it?" 

The whole conversation was at risk. Lambert had derailed it as Vesemir knew he would. Choice, consent, bodily autonomy. They'd always been sore subjects for the lad because he'd been through so much already. "I think I've got a better idea," Vesemir said carefully. "How about you ask me questions, and I answer them as honestly as I can, and if I don't know the answer, I can come back with it." Lambert glared a little longer, squinted, and then shimmied in his seat. It was a worthy offering.

"Fine," he grunted. "Women. How does it...? How - ?" Usually so confident with his words, Lambert stumbled and ended up lifting his hands to make the gesture he'd seen many of the older witchers do when having lewd discussions; forefinger through a loosely clenched fist.

"They've got two holes down there. Ass, like you, but at the front they've got another. It's their cunt, gets very wet if they're into it, slippery. Sometimes they need a little bit of stroking, you can put your fingers inside to help. Always take your time until they're ready, don't rush. You have to ask before you touch a woman, lad. You don't go grabbin' at a girl's breasts, or her private areas, or anythin'. You ask."

"I'm not a fuckin' animal, I know that," Lambert bit out. He looked down at his hands, sucked in a breath, and stared Vesemir dead in the eye. "And men? I saw some stuff in the baths." 

"Oh, you did, did you?"

"Yeah, bit public. Should probably go have The Talk with half the witchers at the big table." 

"Hmm." 

"So?" Lambert pushed, a slight flush on his neck. "How's it work? With men?"

"Same rules. No touchin' without askin'," Vesemir said, ticking off the important bit. "You can touch their prick just like yours, you can use your mouth too - oh, uh, you can do that on a woman, you go down and -," he glanced up, saw Lambert's face, an expression as if he'd just sucked a lemon, and decided to backtrack, "right, so, for a fella, it's the ass you're going to be pushin' into. You need loads of oil, lad. You can get special oil, and lubricant. Men don’t make it themselves.”

Lambert rolled his eyes impatiently. He obviously knew the logistics, and Vesemir swallowed his amusement at the idea that the little gremlin had crouched in the shadows to take notes. Lambert continued. “Where’d I get ‘em?”

Vesemir raised an eyebrow. “Have you got someone in mind?”

“None of your business,” Lambert huffed, arms folded across his still narrow chest. There was a definite colour to his cheeks now; rosy pink, with the tips of his ears burning red. _There was definitely someone._

“’Spose not,” Vesemir rubbed at his stubbled chin. “If that’s something you need, then Gardis has a good recipe for some. Not just good for men, either. Some lasses need a little help, not ‘cause they’re not into it, just bodies are fickle.”

“Right,” Lambert mumbled, returning to his bag of biscuits for another morsel. They sat in silence for a minute or so while he mulled the information over and thought on his next question. “So, you put it on your dick, and then you just stick it in their ass?”

“Not quite,” Vesemir cleared his throat. “Asses aren’t really designed for it. You need to spend time with your fingers, or your - .”

“I’m not kissing someone else’s ass,” Lambert glowered.

“Not saying you have to. You might want to one day.”

“Fuckin’ disgusting,” Lambert groused. “Come on, fingers, then what?”

“Once they’re loose enough, you stick it in. Slow, though. Don’t want any tearin’.”

“Hmm,” another biscuit crunched. “Does it hurt?”

“Sex should never hurt. If it hurts, it needs to stop and be talked about. No always means no, even if you’re halfway through,” Vesemir said, scratching idly at his moustache. “Receivin’ from another man can be a bit uncomfortable first few times, but if he knows what he’s about, he won’t be hurtin’ you.”

“Who says I’m going to be the one getting fucked?” Lambert bristled, fists clenching. “I’m not some weakling. I’ll do the fucking.” 

“There ain’t no shame in receivin’, boy. You need to forget whatever you heard about it from humans. We live too long, see too much, to be carryin’ those kinds of prejudices.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Lambert huffed. 

Another silence settled, and Vesemir waited patiently, ticking off the things in his head that they’d covered. Hair growth, sensitivity with a desire to touch, being decent, female bits, male bits, mostly. Oh, he should probably talk about the monthly cycle, but he was quite sure he’d heard Barmin mention the including the biology part of it in the curriculum. This was just meant for awkward questions they didn’t want to ask in front of their peers.

“Does someone have to love you to fuck you?” 

Vesemir blinked. _Well, fuck._ He cleared his throat, swept a hand over his hair, and shuffled. “No. Some people just like the physical part of it.”

“That’s good,” Lambert left the bed, returning his remaining biscuits to his stash. “At least I stand half a chance of getting laid, then.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“No one loves witchers,” Lambert said, dropping the lid of his trunk. “‘Specially not ugly ones.”

“You think you’re ugly?” 

Lambert’s upper lip curled, and he turned away, dismissive. “Don’t need a pep talk from you, old man. I know what I am. Not gonna’ whine about it.” 

“All teenagers look a little awkward. You grow into yourself. Like a good wine.” Vesemir stood. The chair groaned, empty pillows puffing as the weight shifted off. “C’mon then, key points of the lesson.”

“Seriously?” Lambert groaned, eyes rolling, and then when he turned to face Vesemir’s raised eyebrows heaved a resigned sigh. “Fine. Body’s gonna’ get hairier than a chort, don’t whip my dick out in public, don’t touch without asking because it’s rude, women get wet, men don’t, you can say no whenever, and sex isn’t meant to hurt. That about cover it?” 

“More or less,” Vesemir sniffed, “if you have any more questions. You just need to ask. If anything looks odd or frightens you, or if anything gets sore, painful. You come to us. No shame, understand?” In all likelihood, puberty would be fairly smooth for Lambert. They tended to spot the struggling ones quite early on. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Lambert waved him away and dropped down by his knucklebones. 

His duties complete, Vesemir left Lambert to his game. Voltehre sprinted past him as he descended the stairs back to the grand hall, clearly in a hurry to exchange information with Lambert. Vesemir wondered whether _Voltehre_ had caught Lambert’s attention or maybe one of the older boys. He’d have to keep an eye on that. They gave every boy a talking-to about consent, but it didn’t always sink in.

There was lots more to discuss, of course. How to receive pleasure, how to give it; the skill of using your mouth to please a partner and the different erogenous zones. These were all things that were safe to learn as the pup grew because no one could get hurt from a disappointing (but safe and consensual) fuck. Desire was as unique to each individual as the lines on their palms. Stories could be exchanged over vodka, techniques shared and reviewed, preferences explored. It was part of turning into an adult.

***

Geralt was waiting for Eskel at the stable doors when he arrived home that winter. They got the fussy mare Eskel had picked up in Aedirn tucked away into a stall, tripped out into the crisp night air and then fell immediately into each other’s arms for a kiss. Eskel’s big hands held Geralt’s narrow face, thumbs smoothing snowy hair back from his stubbled jaw as their mouths worked together. 

Eskel didn’t expect the stone that clocked him squarely in the back of the head. “Ow, fuck,” he grunted into Geralt’s mouth, clapping a palm to the growing bump. 

“Oi, chucklefucks,” Lambert called from a small alcove in the side of the keep. He’d been waiting for them. “I’ve got questions.”

Eskel and Geralt exchanged a worried look. Geralt adjusted his trousers so that his cock could settle at a more comfortable angle, and Eskel turned with a sigh. “Alright, little wolf. Can I at least get a beer first?”

“I’ll allow it.” Lambert slunk down from his hiding place and disappeared into the keep. The other two just rolled their eyes and followed in his wake. It was much easier to go with the flow when it came to Lambert. There was no point fighting a tempest; you’d always lose.


End file.
